


Under the Cut

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s pulse had been steady, but a little elevated. </p>
<p>He told him it was all fine.</p>
<p>It wasn’t mentioned. Became the secret in the room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Cut

**Author's Note:**

> We all have scars. Some visible, some not so much. The only reason I feel comfortable with this subject is because I understand it so well. If you ever need to talk, my door is always open. Skype, Ask, Email. Always.
> 
> Love and Light~ Diann

There had been the first time he had ever taken Sherlock’s pulse, that fine diagonal line. It felt relatively small under his fingers, no longer than two and a half centimeters. He wondered who had treated Sherlock as the scar was not even noticeable, well he’d know now so he’d see it the next time. Once something like this was known it was hard to dismiss; especially as a doctor, even more so as a friend, let alone a fellow human being. The fact that this one existed made him wonder if there were others on his friend’s body. If that was why he chose to cover up at all times even when it was just the two of them in the flat he was never without his dressing gown, the sleeves too long, the silk too baggy.

Sherlock’s pulse had been steady, but a little elevated. 

He told him it was all fine.

It wasn’t mentioned. Became the secret in the room.

John hadn’t wanted to press the issue, the scar being ages old, but as Sherlock’s official physician he decided to look into the records. Nothing too deep, just to get the breadth of a deeper issue then he had originally knew existed. The cocaine usage to ‘quiet’ his mind, the ‘need’ for the nicotine to keep him perpetually wound, adrenaline laced nights chasing criminals without waiting for Greg... no all of these were just symptoms that barely scratched the surface, John could feel it. So he dug just enough, then infuriated, closed the digital copies Mycroft had supplied him with six months ago. 

No wonder Mycroft worried, but even still John almost couldn’t forgive.

He could have known then. Should have -possibly.

It went unmentioned again. Became another secret. 

_...think it runs something like this: there were injuries he’d barely skimmed, and there were scars locked tight to his heart. They added up. John knew..._

There _were_ injuries that John had barely touched. He knew, calculated, even if others didn’t. These weren’t even including the ones that were locked tight to his closest friends heart. Even if his personal physicians chose not to see what was clearly there. Their son, right in front of them... did they ignore it to save their families name from sullying? Or had Sherlock, being clever enough, made sure he never seen by the same doctor often enough to obfuscate the ongoing issues he had in his youth? His heart wept for his friend, bled for him deeply injured that this had ever been allowed, that Sherlock had ever felt the need to end his life in a variety of interesting and economic ways in reality. God knows there must be a higher purpose for Sherlock to still be here for John to care for him the way he always should have been.

The one that truly terrified John was the last one, just two short months before they met. No wonder Sherlock would have taken that damned pill -it would have been a new and interesting way to see if his body could survive the latest attempt at ending it. He could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head keeping a quiet litany of descriptors of each experience, on he quite possibly had. Had Sherlock been successful, and he had just been out of rehab for under seven months at the time, god John was going to be a wreck when he got home. There would be no hiding of this revelation from Sherlock.

John could forgive all this, the self-destructiveness; he wanted to heal it.

He knew exactly what it felt like. Sherlock had saved him without even knowing.

It was John’s turn to finally mention. No more secrets.

John took the seventeen steps with purpose to be met with Sherlock dangling from the ceiling, a cry ripped from him before he was even aware of the vocalisation. The detective just raised his head laughing as he began to animatedly explain how the man they had thought hanged, indeed had not truly been, how he must have bribed someone to save him at the makeshift gallows, and how he thus still was on the loose. Most likely with his accomplice, both looking to revenge and most assuredly with murder on their own minds. Stunned, he stood silently during the whole thing taken aback, at once thankful that his friend was alive and this wasn’t an attempt gone wrong/right/whatever category this would file under. When Sherlock asked to be handed his mobile, John gave him the sternest look possible redressed the strung up detective, and slammed the door behind him as he left Baker Street with a call to Mrs. Hudson to possibly go help the madman because he was leaving to the shops.

He’d vowed to himself to not be silent, to help. 

Caring was an advantage, it was just time to prove that to the person closest to him.

_______________________________

No, this meant baring his heart as he felt no one had, to his wonderfully enigmatic friend. He had known that the feelings other then just platonic, something deeper, soul touching at least for him. This only spurned those feelings into the forefront, he needed to show Sherlock what it was like to be loved, to be cared for. In the end, that is all John wished for his friend, to know he is cared for deeply. He expected nothing to come of it, no grand gestures, just Sherlock to learn the comforting knowledge that someone held him in the highest regard. Sherlock seemed to appraise him from the comfort of his chair by the warm fire he had built right after he had gotten home with the groceries. 

Humor was also a good way to show affection, so he gave Sherlock a warm smile and glance as he continued moving on from the potatoes. This was apparently too much for his flatmate, Sherlock’s curiosity seemed to be getting the better of him. He could see him finally leave the chair his gait quiet and subtle as if he were approaching a wild thing.

“John,” The lanky git hovering in the kitchen doorway finally vocalized. “You do know that take-away is just fine. Why on earth would you go to this trouble? You never cook except for breakfast.”

He would see him eat, at least it could be a beginning, an opening move in the grander scheme. Sherlock never seemed to eat with any regularity and now it was twice as worrisome as the doctor in him began screaming different disorders in varying mildness and pieces of Sherlock began to come further into focus. No one thing then, of this John was certain. Anorexia possibly, dissociation/ depersonalization which went a bit deeper he thought, compartmentalization like no mans business. He would never ‘treat’ his best friend as a patient though, it was very clear that route had little helped and quite possibly further hurt the situation.

“Because, I’d like to feed you up a bit. Most of the take-away we have is nothing but carbs and empty of proper nutritional value.” He was working steadily, the knife snicking pleasantly on the board as he cubed the steak, as the onions and carrots were glazing pot. He could feel the gaze of genuine curiosity burn in his back. chopped the carrots and the cubes of steak were behind him browning, the feel of the gaze full of genuine curiosity. “I decided to remedy that, well at least for tonight as long as there is no case on. I don’t know how often I’ll be able to do this, but I thought you might enjoy it.”

Sherlock continued to stand in the doorway, John assumed mulling over the conversation, before making his way to the cabinet that held some of the extra lab equipment liberating an apron that was surprisingly devoid of stains or burns, efficiently tying it then pulling over the bowl of peas, Sherlock began shucking them in companionable silence. 

‘ _Alright then_.’ John’s smile warmed as did his cheeks.

They continued on until everything was chopped, diced or shucked adding the motley mix to the pan with the steak, John adding a good red wine setting it to simmer. Sherlock dropped his apron on the table as he sat with a soft huff of an exhale before once again setting his focus entirely on John. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not really, having Sherlock’s gaze settled on him. It was almost comforting in a way. It meant his friend was trying to puzzle him out yet again, but not finding everything. 

“John-”

“Sherlock?” John laughed into the name, still turned away.

“John, are you alright?” There was a hint, a very small tenor to the question, one he recognised only by constant proximity to his flatmate. “Is... well is everything fine?”

“Yes, quite.” He replied solidly, allowed weight to the words. “Very much so.”

Sherlock quieted once again, but still seemed to remain thoughtful. His eyes hardly leaving John as he moved through their flat cleaning the table they used for a desk, putting things to right before dinner was finished. It would be nice to sit across from him, John had decided. They’d be close as they often were at Angelo’s but there would be no concern of being overheard. He had promised himself no filters, and so far, it seemed to be working.

“Dinner’s just about ready, help me set the table?” John asked, still not making direct eye contact, but still being open in his body language allowing his happiness and comfort speak through that medium. One Sherlock could very easily read, so much so more than words.

“Of course.” Sherlock stood and went to the shelves, got out placemats, tableware and two wine glasses. “I’ll be right back for the wine.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” John replied to him as he moved between rooms, then halted.

“You’re welcome, John.”

“Yes, this would be the way to show him,” John knew it. “I’ve got this right.” He pulled their dinner off the hob and plated it immediately, reserving some of the wine rich sauce for tea later in the week. It would be nice. Before he could say anything Sherlock was behind him, almost snug, reaching for one of the plates. John’s eyes followed the movement of the fingers as they deftly picked up the weight and maneuvered back behind him before Sherlock’s other hand wrapped around the other side and repeated the process. He himself, remained still, his posture relaxed showing both trust and familiarity once again. Sherlock may be probing for starts or tells, but for once there weren’t going to be any. 

Everything on the table, no more secrets. 

“Sherlock,” He called almost as the man was out of the kitchen doorway. “Thank you for helping with this.”

“Again, you are welcome.” Sherlock was beginning to allow something into his words, maybe warmth, most likely concern of a different sort. John didn’t want him in duress or guarded, even though quite honestly, it looked as if Sherlock was more centered than usual. Once they were both seated though, Sherlock asked once again even though it usually he was usually loathe to do so. “John, are you alright?”

He brought his eyes to meet his friends.

John allowed his compassion, concern, and genuine affection he had for the man to the forefront before saying a word so that Sherlock would know; there would be no reason for Sherlock to second guess what John was saying to him. 

“I am fine,” John sadly smiled, showing concern. “I just want to take care of you.”

“You’re not my keeper-” Sherlock began.

“No, I’m not. But what I am is your friend Sherlock.” John’s smile brightened. “I care about you; more than just as your doctor. More than as a blogger that fills in for the skull... I’m here to listen and be listened to.” He took a breath in slowly, release just as controlled. “I’m here to care for you and be cared about.”

“But I do care... damn it John.” Sherlock raked his fingernails along his scalp before shuddering in, what John assumed was, frustration. His voice was low but his eyes were bright and busy, the puzzle John had set must have inadvertently ratched up a notch in Sherlock’s mind. “Are you well... do not lie. This,” He gestured to the whole of the flat. “This, John smacks of endings... I should know. But you wouldn’t- you’re not cruel.”

“No, Sherlock. It’s a beginning... a different sort of one yes... but that alone.”

“Then you must want-”

“Sherlock, no.” John cut him off before he spun more onto this than was necessary. “Not that, not yet at any rate. I am your friend, let me be that to you. No strings. You need someone to... to understand, and I have begun to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Song Insp for this fic:
> 
> Born ~ Over the Rhine  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-UvJ4LBzVg


End file.
